


In-between Insanity

by slash-em-up (writeonrice)



Category: House of Wax (2005)
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Gen, Not a fun story, Sibling Relationship, Starvation, Suicide, Underage Oral Sex, car theft, trauma trauma everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-12-28 14:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21138317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeonrice/pseuds/slash-em-up
Summary: Years pass, moments end, and everything rolls downhill like mud in a summer storm. Detailing the years in the lives of Bo, Vincent, and Lester from their mothers death to the beginning of their Town of Wax.





	1. September, 1983 pt.1

Vincent hated the smell of his mothers sick-room. 

The antiseptic sharpness of cleaning agents mixed with the leftover haze of Trudy’s perfume – a small comfort Victor tried to give his wife – and the scent that was only found around the ill and dying.

  
Vincent rather wished that his father wouldn’t allow Trudy her perfume anymore. At least that small part of his mother might then be memorialized, instead of corrupted by her moaning and the lingering odor of ammonia.

  
After his homework and before bed, Vincent made a habit of visiting Trudy as she lay strapped down in the small room off of Victor’s study.

Sometimes he would bring water, to give his mother a drink if she was lucid; happy to sit at her side as she patiently waited for her son to whisper broken sentences about his day.

Or, as was becoming more and more frequent, he would bring a small pad of paper and quietly sketch. Letting the ailing woman mumble incoherently as her son sat vigil at her side.

  
Today Vincent desperately hoped for lucidity.

  
Grasped gingerly between his palms lay a small birds nest filled with shattered egg shells.

On his walk home from school, Vincent had happened across the nest laying at the base of one of the giant willows that lined the swampy path between Ambrose and the neighboring town.

The nest itself was unremarkable; but the shells contained within were such a vibrant blue that they had immediately stood out to the young man from their place on the browning grass.

  
Carefully handling the delicate cargo, Vincent had quietly made his way into the house, and past Victor – already half-way through a bottle of cheap whiskey – wanting nothing more than to share his treasure with his mother.

He recalled with vivid detail how in years past Trudy had taught his to carefully tend the bushes lining their backyard, telling him to be on the lookout for Robins nesting in the thick brambles.

Well, here he was, and now he hoped to recapture those halcyon day memories for his mother in her twilight hours.

  
Despite the wafting odor of the sickroom, he grinned beneath his wax façade as he pushed the door inward.

There was no sound from within; which generally indicated that Trudy was having a good day.

  
“Mama, I...”

  
Vincent stopped short and felt his heart drop at the glassy gaze that started vacantly into the void.

“Ma?”

  
Vincent set the nest down on the nearby table and slowly approached the bed.

  
Trudy’s clouded eyes did not waver from their place on the far wall, and Vincent felt himself tremble as he reached one had slowly out towards his mother.

The skin he touched felt as chill and slick as the wax Trudy had taught him so carefully to mold; and with a gasp Vincent pulled his hand away.

  
The next few seconds felt like they were a part of some other persons life - like he was watching through eyes that belonged to some formless, emotionless shape; uncaring that a young man’s mother had just died, that she was taken from her children and husband far too soon.

There was a vacuum where Vincent’s emotions should be. Sadly, this would not remain the case.

  
As awareness slowly returned to the boy, he became aware of a low moaning noise in his ear.

  
Momentarily, this comforted Vincent. 

How could his mother be dead? She was moaning and crying, as she did on her worse days – not dead, just ill.

  
It wasn’t until the pain in his throat began to register that the full horror of the situation became abundantly clear.

  
As Vincent hoarsely cried for his father, for Bo, for anyone, he felt his footing slip out from underneath him. 

Landing hard on the linoleum floor he crawled slowly away from his mother corpse.

  
Unable to make enough noise through his ruined throat to alert the house to what had occurred.


	2. September, 1983 pt.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lester does his homework

_‘Two over four is equal to which of the following... three over eight, one over two, five over twenty...’_

  
Lester sat hunched over his math homework, completely miserable. His brain never seemed to want to put the stupid numbers in the right order, and no matter how hard he tried the answers always came out wrong.

  
He sighed deeply and stared longingly over at the tub of Legos sitting placidly by the door of his room – just waiting for his small nine-year old fingers to form them into soaring castles and pirate ships.

  
_‘Focus Lester_’ he could hear his Father say in his head_ ‘this is simple math; sit down and finish or I’ll be very disappointed with you.’_

  
All three of the Sinclair sons had become intimately familiar with the consequences of their fathers disappointment over the years; more so since Mama got sick and Daddy started buying more and more of that funny smelling drink.

  
Lester didn’t like it when Daddy was disappointed, and even more so at his own inability to be smart like Bo and Vincent.

He huffed and silently begged the numbers on the worksheet in front of him to just make sense for once so he could get this over with and maybe talk Vincent into building something with him...

  
Lester’s train of thought was cut abruptly short as the door to his room was flung open and Victor Sinclair stormed in, Vincent close at his heels.

Vincent looked like he was having trouble standing, and as soon as he was near the bed he collapsed onto it and held out his arms for Lester to embrace him.

Lester did so happily, not quite understanding what brought on this impromptu visit.

  
As he grasped his larger brother, he felt his dark -haired sibling tremble, and heard small whimpers escaping from beneath the mask he wore.

  
“...Vince, you ok?”

  
Before Vincent could answer, Victor was looming over his children, eyes red and panting like a bull.

  
“Where’s your brother?”

  
Lester could only assume he was talking about Bo – who in recent months had taken to sneaking down the trellis and wandering off into town to ‘make mischief’ as Victor called it.

  
With Vincent burying his face so deeply into Lester’s thin shoulder, the younger boy felt as if the shivers coming off of the older youths body were indistinguishable from his own in the face of his fathers anger.

  
Lester swallowed hard.

  
“I...”

  
“Where’s your FUCKING BROTHER?!?”

  
Victor screamed - spittle flying into Lester’s face - and he cowered.

  
With a scream, Victor turned from his two sons and began flinging Lester’s toy boxes around the room, pulling the closet door wide and frantically throwing whatever he could find around the room in a maniacal search for his third son.

  
“BEAUREGARD SINCLAIR IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR FUCKING ASS OUT HERE IN TEN SECONDS I WILL MAKE YOU REGRET IT!!!”

  
“... Daddy, Bo ain’t here...”

  
Lester immediately regretted his words as Victor rounded on his sons and delivered a harsh slap to his youngest’s face.

  
“Bo _isn’t_ here, Lester. _Isn’t_.”

  
Vincent held him tighter as the tears – from both pain and shock- began to roll down Lester’s cheeks. Victor’s own eyes were far from dry as he brought himself closer to the bed.

  
“Your mother has passed away, Lester. And I will be damned if I let her leave this house without a proper goodbye from all her sons.”

Lester couldn’t breath as his father’s words penetrated.

  
His sobs began small – clawing their way up from his lungs and out with increasing fervor; prompting Vincent to begin to cry in earnest with his sibling.

  
Victor stared, an entirely dispassionate gaze, if not for the tears leaking from his own eyes and down into the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning.

  
Their father stepped forward, halting when his foot crunched down on Lester’s half-finished worksheet.

  
He bent and held the paper to the light, examining the scratched-out numbers and small stick figure doodles in the margins.

  
His eyes returned to his two sons and both Vincent and Lester involuntarily flinched at the look in their father’s face.  
His normal apathy had morphed with his rage to create a rictus grin that chilled each boy to the bone.

  
Victor choked out a laugh.

  
“What a legacy, Trudy. What a legacy...”

  
Wild-eyed, Victor stumbled to Lester’s open window; peering out into the waning sunlight before slowly closing the curtains.

  
Lester watched his father move around the room with terror. He’d never seen Victor act so unbalanced before, and for the first time in his life he felt real fear for Bo.

  
Lester didn’t even bother resisting as Vincent rallied just long enough to pull both boys beneath the covers of Lester’s bed – he was still shaking with the excess of emotions running through his small body, now multiplied by fear of this newly unhinged Victor.

  
However, Lester comforted himself with the knowledge that everything would work itself out in the end. His child’s brain not allowing him to fully understand the magnitude of the situation his family now found itself in; and he found himself slowly drifting off to sleep held in his big brothers embrace.

  
Victor did not glance back at his sons as he walked out of the room and slowly closed the door. 

“Get some sleep boys. I’ll wait up for your brother...”


	3. September, 1983 pt.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bo arrives home

The warm Southern sun had well and truly set by the time Bo crept up the path to the Sinclair house. 

In no hurry to actually enter the residence, the eldest Sinclair (by 43 seconds) was more than happy to pour another handful of Skittles into his mouth, hoping to cover the smell of the cheap cigarette he’d pawned off a high schooler at the corner market.

There were no lights on in the house; which Bo found mildly unusual. At the very least, there was normally a light on in his and Vincent’s room; where he was assured to find his twin sketching or sculpting some dumb shit while he waited for Bo to return – offering a brief glance and a nod to his wayward sibling before re-focusing on his art.

  
Tonight, there was only blackness.

This filled Bo with a sense of audacity he would not normally express to this degree; and he quietly trod the few steps up to the front door.

  
Removing the key he had lifted from his mothers purse several weeks ago, Bo slowly unlocked the door and entered the living room of the Sinclair residence.

  
Gingerly stepping over the wooden planks he knew would squeak, he made his way towards the staircase.

  
“You missed all the excitement around here this evening Bo...”

  
Hearing this, Bo spun quickly - finding the imposing silhouette of Victor lined in the pale moonlight that streamed through the kitchen window.

  
A chuckle left Bo’s mouth as he cautiously stepped further into the house, watching Victor for any sudden movements.

  
“What, did Vincent finally work up the nerve to as Cynthia Knickerbocker to the dance? She’s got a headpiece and looks like she got run over by a car, I think his chances are pretty good...”

  
“Your mother passed away this afternoon.”

  
Bo paused.

  
“What?”

  
Victor stood from his seat at the table.

  
“Your mother, my wife, is dead you ungrateful little shit.”

  
Bo’s breath caught as he saw the moonlight reflect off of the pistol held tightly in Victor’s hand.

  
Immediately backing away from the larger man coming towards him, Bo began looking frantically around for an exit.

  
This was hardly the first time Victor and he had had a physical altercation; but the gun gripped in his father’s hand changed things.

Come here, Bo.”

  
“Dad – I...”

  
“Come HERE!!”

  
Victor lunged; grasping at Bo’s collar. He caught his son and pulled him towards his office – Bo struggled mightily in his grasp; but was quickly over-powered.

  
Despite the foul odor of whiskey permeating off of Victors person, he still had several inches and many pounds on his 14 year-old son.

  
Pulling Bo along, Victor opened the door to the exam room off his office, where Trudy’s corpse lay – still and pale as Vincent had found her earlier this afternoon.

  
Bo thrashed with all his might as Victor brought him closer and closer to his mother’s body; making aborted pleading noises – unwilling to give Victor the satisfaction of hearing him beg.

  
Only the cold steel of the pistol pressed against his temple brought him to heel.

  
By this point they were next to Trudy’s bed; leaning close – far too close – to her icy form.

  
“Tell your mother ‘goodbye’ Bo. Be a good son, now...”

  
“...”

  
The pistol cocked

  
“... Goodbye, Mama...”

  
Victor relaxed behind him.

  
“... I hope you rot in hell where you belong, you bitch!”

  
At first, all Bo registered was pain – an unfamiliar ringing in his head as he slowly slid to his knees in front of his mother.

  
He heard his father speak, as if through water.

  
“I’m sorry Trudy, some people just have no respect...”

  
Bo’s hand reached back and felt his head, coming back stained a bright red – Victor had hit him with the gun.

  
Groaning, Bo pulled himself to his feet, staggering back when he noticed how close this action brought him to his mother’s ashen face.

  
The tell-tale sound of the gun’s hammer being pulled made him whirl towards his father.

The gun trembled in the surgeons once-steady hands.

  
“...I should have done this fourteen years ago...”

  
Bo dropped to the ground as he heard the gun discharge – the bullet passing harmlessly over his head.

  
He heard his brothers scream from upstairs, awakened by the noise.

  
Victor heard as well, and stood frozen for a moment – looking from the ceiling, to Bo, to Trudy.

  
A low laugh started in Victors throat – rising in intensity as his eldest looked on in horror.

  
He cocked the gun once more – looking in Bo’s fear-stricken eyes – he grinned, put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.


	4. July, 1985 pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent contemplates.

The heat filtering in from the window Vincent sat in front of was stifling.

The late July sunlight mixed with the humidity of a recent rainstorm to create an environment some might say was fit for neither man nor beast – yet the young man siting on the window ledge couldn’t be bothered to remove the woolen suit coat he wore.

In fact, it was wrapped as tightly as possible around his thin chest as he could get it, while still making room for one of his hands to slip inside and run thoughtlessly along his threadbare cotton button down, counting the ribs beneath.

_‘...eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve_...’

They were more pronounced this week than they had been the week prior – in fact, everything about the dark haired boy was becoming more gaunt as time in St. Agatha’s Orphanage passed.

Vincent had turned sixteen two weeks prior and had passed most of the other boys his age in height; but the nuns watching over the residents at the home were baffled as to why the deformed Sinclair boy remained stubbornly slim.

If they’d watched a bit closer they might notice than while he sat down for the three meals the church provided for the hall residents; he rarely did more than move the food around with his fork – staring listlessly into space.  
  


It wasn’t particularly shocking to any of the wardens that Vincent had remained in residence for nearly two years; long after both his brothers had been sent off to foster homes.

The mandatory haircuts supplied to all residents of the orphanage laid bare what the thick, lengthy strands and wax mask Vincent had arrived with were meant to hide.

The puckered, red scar tissue and missing eye were still wont to give many of the nuns pause if they came upon the boy as he moved like a ghost from class to class.

Initially, the boy had given a small sweet smile to any visitors-potential adopter or not – but after seeing more than a few prospective homes pale and turn away at the sight of his mangled face and lip; this practice had ended.

The kinder parsons and nuns of the controlling parish would sadly shake their heads and offer small prayers that the boy would find someone who understood his situation; but as time passed and Vincent became more and more withdrawn, this seemed unlikely.

Vincent shivered despite the heat, and withdrew his hand from his jacket.

He observed the dust motes floating through the air and settling on the wooden ledge he sat on.

His fingers itched to reach out and free the image he could see waiting in the dusty surface – a small girl, perhaps one he’d seen during his tenure here (hers must have been much shorter, for obvious reasons), with curls and Mary Jane shoes – he could already feel the turns his fingers would have to make to bring the girl to life in the dust, a nail slide here, a short press of a thumb there... but instead he swiped the surface clear. Taking the girl and her potential with it.

Vincent felt anger rise within him as he looked down at the clean wood, then up to his reflection in the mirror.

The normal half of his face curled up in a silent snarl and one hand – larger now, but slender, his mother would call them artists hands – slammed into the window frame with a loud **BANG**.

Staring into his own good eye, Vincent placed one hand over his ruined side.

_ ‘This is probably what Bo looks like now_...’

Half his mouth began to wobble as tears rose unbidden as the thought of his brothers floated into his mind.

Little Lester... Bo, always so much stronger than he was...

It had broken Vincent further when they were taken from him. Lester first, being so young, he wasn’t long for the orphanage.

Then Bo was taken as well – by the state, rather than a loving family – fighting and cursing the entire way as the CPS agent pulled him away to parts unknown.

Leaving Vincent alone.

‘_God, I’m so hungry_...’

Yet the thought of eating was so repulsive to him that he could feel his stomach twisting involuntarily.

Maybe he’d just fade away to nothing.

He shuddered again and quickly wiped the tears from his cheek as the sound of scuffling brogues and muffled chatter resonated outside the boys communal hall.

Vincent turned his head quickly away as the doors opened, pressing his hand once again to his prominent rib cage.

_‘...one, two, three, four.._.’

“Hey, freak!”

_‘...five, six, seven_...’


	5. July, 1985 pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bo steals a car

Bo threw his head back with a groan as his cock spurted inside the hot mouth surrounding his length.

  
He heard Helen.. Hana... Harriet? gag around him and he tightened the grip he had on her hair so she couldn’t pull away.

  
Once he was finished he released the girl and let her fall back to the cement sidewalk.

  
He grinned down at the gasping woman, feeling the lethargic post-orgasm feeling slide through his veins.

  
“Thanks sugar. That was fun.”

  
Hailey glared up at him and wiped her mouth on her sweater.

  
“Fuck you, Bo Sinclair. You’re just as awful as everyone says you are!”

  
Scoffing, Bo watched as Holly stood and dusted herself off before striding down the street.

“See you in class, baby!” Bo shouted after her retreating form.

  
Flexing his shoulder – feeling the healing bruise from his recently dislocated joint ache – Bo stood from his slump against the alley wall.

  
Sticking his hands into his pocket, he felt the few crumpled bills and quarters left over from his weekend stint at the gas station.

  
‘What the hell.” Bo thought, sticking his other hand into his pocket and striding casually out of the ally and towards the local grocery store.

  
His path was disrupted suddenly by a screeching blaze of blue chrome and steel.

‘Football bastards...’

  
Bo scowled at the vehicle that held four of the high schools football players - the towns star quarterback, two linebackers, and a running back.

  
“Get the fuck out of the way Sinclair!”

“Eat shit Colson!”

  
Bo sneered as the car rolled away and parked at the grocers – all four muscle-bound bozos exiting and sauntering into the store.

  
The wiry young man huffed in annoyance and continued down the street towards the store.

  
He paused once more as he saw the girl he’d recently... spent time with... curling her arm around Peter Colson’s shoulders; kissing his cheek affectionately.

  
Well... that fucking sucked.

Not that he’d cared one bit about whether some bitch decided to fuck one guy or the whole school. What mattered to him was that this slut tossed him off for some fucking pretty boy with a nice car.

  
And what a nice car it was.

His weekend job not only kept him away from the current shitty foster family – so far his record was seven families in two years – but he’d learned that he had a natural talent for mechanics and the intricate inner workings of cars.

  
And Colson’s sweet Mustang was earning quite a bit of his attention.

  
The thought took less than a second to take root in Bo’s mind, and before he knew it, his feet had led him to stand next to Peter’s car.

  
Casually surveying the parking lot, Bo pulled a wedge tool from his pocket and slid it into the small gap between the window and the car door - jerking the metal pole in and up, he grinned when he heard the lock snap.

‘Easy as pie...’

  
Yanking the door open, Bo slid into the drivers seat, reaching under the dashboard to yank at the wires curled beneath the hard plastic.

  
He quickly stripped the wired with his teeth and started brushing them against each other – listening for the tell-tale sound of the engine turning over.

  
“Hey! That’s my car!!”

  
Bo startled as he heard a voice yelling nearby.

  
Apparently Peter wasn’t as oblivious as he appeared – and he was rushing over to the car, followed in close succession by his goons.

  
Beginning to feel slightly panicked, Bo flicked the wires together faster – letting out a harsh cackle as the engine roared to life.

  
He quickly twisted the wires together and shifted the Mustang into gear.

  
His smile only grew has he screeched out of the lot, listening to Peter scream in rage behind him.

  
Pushing his foot down onto the gas pedal as far as he could, Bo let out a yell of enthusiasm as the speedometer ramped up from 40 to 100 mph - faster than Bo had ever gone – and he felt alive.

  
Everything seemed to disappear into the ether – his foster parents, his brothers...his bruises and pains all flew away at the car sped down the back roads.

  
For a few moments, Bo felt calm.

  
Not even the red and blue lights flashing in the rear view mirror could bring him back to earth.

Only two more years to go...


	6. July, 1985 pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lester plays baseball

“Hey batter, batter, batter! Batter up!”

Lester was nearly shaking in his sneakers, as he climbed out of the dugout and trotted over to the dusty diamond that indicated the home plate on the dirt field where the Eunice Bobcats let their Little League counterparts play on Sunday afternoons.

The sun had just hit it’s zenith and was streaming right into the small boys eyes as he grabbed a heavy wooden bat and tapped it hesitantly against the ground. Raising it up and copying the stance he’d seen the other players take.

This wasn’t Lester’s first time being up to bat; but it was pretty close, and he didn’t want to let his team down. Not with everyone watching!

He surreptitiously scanned the bleachers, looking for a few particular faces; but the sun was too bright, and the pitcher was winding up.

The ball whizzed through the air.

Lester closed his eyes and swung.

“Strike one!”

Groans of dismay rose from his teammates in the dugout.

The opposing team jeered loudly, taunting the skinny boy from all angles.

Lester raised the bat to his shoulder again, trying to block out the noise and focus on the pitcher.

“Strike two!”

Defeat shot through Lester like an arrow. His lower lip began to tremble as his coach began shouting at him to ‘_just hit the damn ball!’_

Before Lester could focus once more, the final ball was in the air – flying at him with unerring accuracy.

The impact of it against his face shocked the boy and took him off his feet.

“**Foul**!” The umpire screeched, but Lester barely registered the voice as his head spun in pain and disorientation.

Hands were on him in moments and he was lifted from the ground and carried off the field – the movement jostling his injured head and causing blood to drip from his mouth and down his dusty uniform.

Real tears began to run down his face as the pain began to register – his mouth felt like it was both numb and on fire as big hands began to inspect the damage to his face.

Through his tears and sobs of pain Lester could hear the coach calling out for his foster-mother.

There was no reply.

Lester began to cry harder as he felt one of his small teeth wiggle free of his mouth and fall unnoticed to the ground in a gush of blood and drool.

The swelling was beginning to make breathing difficult and his cries became whimpers out of necessity – growing in intensity again as a hard pack of ice was pressed against his cheek.

“_You’re gonna be fine Sinclair_.”

Watery, squinted eyes rose to the man, wanting desperately to believe him; but more than anything just wanted the pain to stop.

Having exhausted any medical knowledge he might have had on the injured boy, the coach retreated back to calm the twenty-four rowdy players still on the field.

Lester was left alone.

Gingerly opening one eye, the small boy gazed along the stands, looking for the familiar faces of his foster family.

He saw no one.

His cries picked up again as he stood on wobbly legs, stumbling over to grab his ratty knapsack from beside the teams dugout.

The game was back on, and no one took notice of the bleeding boys retreat into the side-streets of the small city center.

Ten laborious minutes later found Lester climbing the steps of his foster home; ringing the bell. He’d lost his key at the park several days ago.

The boy’s small body sagged in relief as he heard the door unlock, opening to one of his foster sisters bored faces.

Seeing the slender boys bloody face, the teenage girl let out a hearty guffaw of laughter.

“Oh shit, Carol’s gonna have kittens when she sees you! What the hell happened?”

Lester couldn’t do more than mumble around his sore face.

“Hit with a baseball…”

This statement was met with a sneer.

“Hope you don’t expect them to fix that tooth for you. Like they’d waste the support check on your stupid face.”

Lester wanted to curse her out for her callousness; but instead slid past the girl and trod into the dwelling, passing several other foster children the family housed along the way.

Entering his shared bedroom, Lester fell onto his bunk with a whine.

He curled into as small ball as possible, holding the melting ice pack a bit closer to his cheek.

The house beyond his door buzzed with activity; but no one came in to check on Lester.

Sleep crawled slowly over the prone boy, the pulsing pain slowly eating away at his energy until he could barely keep his eyes open.

Lester slid into a pain-filled slumber.

That night he dreamed of blood.


End file.
